


Chicago's in the Rear View

by misplaced



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Internal Turmoil, M/M, angsty smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-16 03:46:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13627935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misplaced/pseuds/misplaced
Summary: There were two things in this world that Mickey Milkovich belonged to. Two things that had an undeniable power over him - making their way inside him, pushing and pulling for dominance, never being able to coexist. Mickey needed both of these things to survive, used one to reign in the other in moments that became too overwhelming. Moments like this.





	Chicago's in the Rear View

**Author's Note:**

> This is how I envisioned Mickey could return to Chicago. It is canon-compliant through season 7. I started writing when season 8 began but the only reference to season 8 is a very minor mention/allusion to Ian's behavior in the first half of season 8, nothing major.
> 
> The explicit warning is for the second chapter.
> 
> This is my very first fic, there will be 2 chapters and I was waiting to post until I completed it all but I'm lacking some motivation to finish the second. Figured I'd see what the reception is before posting the second. Any and all feedback/comments/kudos is definitely appreciated!

There were two things in this world that Mickey Milkovich belonged to. Two things that had an undeniable power over him - making their way inside him, pushing and pulling for dominance, never being able to coexist. Mickey needed both of these things to survive, used one to reign in the other in moments that became too overwhelming. Moments like this.

The first of these things having a hold over him had disappeared from his life for far too long but finally made its way back inside. It was currently biting him in the ass and Mickey relished in the feeling. It had been a year since Mickey had escaped prison and abandoned the South Side for the beach in Mexico. A year since that firey redhead abandoned _him_ at the border. Memories come flooding back to him as he sits on the frozen ground of Chicago, fucking 20 degree weather, the snow crusty and fucking cold. The tree he sat against had long since lost it’s leaves but the bare branches above him still somehow provided enough coverage to make it feel 10 degrees colder. Mickey sat, back against the tree, his right leg pulled up towards his chest and the other curled flat on the ground beneath it. His arms gently swooped around his leg, thumbing his fingers, his tattoos a stark contrast to the paleness of his knuckles. Paleness that only comes after the red fades. He wished he had a cigarette to keep this unsettling feeling of anxiousness at bay, but he’d smoked the last about an hour ago and hadn’t thought to pick up another pack before he arrived.

He wasn’t dressed for winter weather. Had spent the last year as a nomad, making his home in various cities in Mexico, the most recent being Tampico, where the temperature stayed in the 90s during the summer and rarely got below 65 in the winter. He was dressed in the same clothes he had with him when he left Chicago a year ago - black and white plaid shirt, jeans and tan boots. All a little worse for the wear. A small backpack was resting next to him, packed with a wad of cash, a few pieces of clothing and other essentials but nothing warm enough for Chicago - he hadn’t needed that on the fucking beach. The only winter article he had was a black beanie that he swiped from a stand down the street selling hats, gloves, scarves… all that shit for the tourists who don’t come prepared for a December visit in Chicago. The cold didn’t bother him. His ass, like the rest of his body, had succumbed to the cold and he welcomed it. Craved it the minute he crossed the Illinois border, after all it was one of the things that had a power over him and was making a home inside his chest. _Cold. Ice. Numbness._ Sure, he wore the beanie, but he’d say it was for anonymity, since he was still a fugitive on the run… not because his ears were fucking freezing and apparently the only part of his body not prone to the numbness.

Every so often Mickey glanced to his left, eyes beginning to gloss over, looking at the thing that brought him back to this city that reeked of alcohol, piss and now the stench of death creeping its way into the mix. A handful of people, a few dressed in black, the others in their every-day grimy clothes, stood around a hole dug six feet deep. Two he recognized, the others he figured were distant relatives or ex-business partners. He had a sinking feeling in his gut that he was trying to suppress while still questioning its existence in the first place. A feeling he’d only had a handful of times in his life, which was still one too many. The first when he was 12 and found his mom’s cold, dead body lying on the bathroom floor, arms covered in fresh track marks. Remembers the feeling getting worse when the first thing he thought to do was to cover her naked figure with a towel. The second time flashes through his mind, memories of being cold and numb, but not the good kind of cold and numb, the bad kind that is entwined with soft and smooth flesh straddling hips, grinding and being forced into something he had no desire for. The look on the face of the boy who sat next to him, blood dripping down his chest. The last two times he had this sinking feeling are associated with abandonment. Being left behind for something better. The Army. A stable life. _Not him._ This sinking feeling was a tangled mess of anger and sadness mixed with an uneasiness about what would happen next.

Mickey was a safe distance away from the small group to not be noticed by anyone. Should they look his way, he’d appear only as a blurred silhouette of someone that could be mistaken for one of the many homeless shitheads who found solace in the cemetery. Which is why it took him by surprise when he suddenly saw a figure walking towards him on his right. Tall, slender, and fucking grown. And red, red, red hair that was like an aura of heat encompassing and radiating from this _man_ as he made his way towards Mickey. Ian fucking Gallagher. _Fuck._ That anxious feeling started to creep it’s way up into Mickey’s chest. He suddenly started to feel the cold beneath him, the air that had been inhaled as frozen molecules was now hot as it left his mouth, visible against the still freezing air surrounding him. He had thought about Ian but hadn’t wanted to see him while he was here since he knew how it would end. Didn’t want to get his heart all mixed up again so it was better to just avoid him. But here he was, slowly approaching, leaving a trail of fire, and there was no way to escape.

Ian was looking straight into Mickey’s eyes, trying to burn himself into his retinas. Mickey tore his gaze away from Ian as he approached, looking down at the ground instead, trying to suppress the anxiousness. Ian stopped a foot in front of him, trying to lock eyes with Mickey as a means of communication but Mickey wasn’t giving an inch. “Hey, Mick” Ian spoke softly as he lightly kicked the side of Mickey’s boot, causing Mickey’s arms to falter from their position around his leg. Mickey looked up and locked eyes with Ian, his green eyes glowing against the staleness of their surroundings, heightened by the red of his hair. Mickey noticed his eyes had taken on more of gray tone since he last saw him. He wondered why. Wondered if it came with growing up, or if eyes were like chameleons… taking on the colors of their surrounding. A part deep inside him wondered if what they say is true - that eyes are a window into someone’s soul - what would that mean for Ian? He wondered what had happened inside him to make them change. The thought tore at a place deep inside of him and he felt himself becoming tense. Mickey figured if that was true his own eyes should be black by now.

Finally Mickey replied, “Hey”. It came out more solemn than he intended. He brought his hand up and thumbed at his bottom lip, suddenly feeling a surge of nervousness pulse through him. “The fuck are you doing here?” A quiet question that Mickey wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to. Ian was dressed in his EMT uniform, bundled up with a heavy uniform jacket and gloves. Ian gestured his head towards the funeral. “Heard the news”, he said as he dropped down to sit beside Mickey on his left, putting a barrier between him and the event taking place a few hundred feet away. Mickey was grateful for the action and wondered if Ian did it on purpose or if it was just coincidental. “Was hoping you wouldn’t be stupid enough to come back for this shit, but thought you might”. Truth was that Ian knew he would return to Chicago for this. He knew Mickey better than Mickey knew himself. He knew, and more importantly understood, what was eating away at Mickey from the inside.

Ian noticed Mickey thumbing at his lip and the way he couldn’t seem to still his fingers. He slipped off his gloves and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the breast pocket of his jacket. He worked one out of the pack, placed it between his lips and lit it. He took a long, deep drag before plucking it from his lips and offering it to Mickey, knowing it was what he needed in that moment. Mickey glanced at Ian and took the cigarette. Ian felt the coldness of Mickey’s fingers as their hands brushed at the exchange. Mickey nodded a silent thank you as he sucked on the cigarette, felt his lungs fill as the nicotine made its way in, offering a much welcomed calmness. 

“Why aren’t you wearing a jacket? Gloves? It’s fucking freezing” Ian asked, not even attempting to mask his concern for the older boy’s wellbeing. “Didn’t come prepared.” That was only half of the truth. “Besides, can’t feel much now anyway”, he added, leaving out the part about craving the cold and numbness.

“How’d you hear about it?” Mickey asked, looking over at the casket and the people surrounding it. It was a question he figured he knew the answer to. _Mandy._ He took another drag on the cigarette and exhaled the smoke through his nose. He passed the cigarette back to Ian, who hesitated before replying, “Mandy”. He wasn’t sure how Mickey would take to him still keeping in touch with Mandy. Didn’t know if he would take it as a sign of betrayal since the last time he and Mickey spoke was when he crossed the Mexican border without him. Ian continued, “Looks like she decided not to come.” Mickey let out a dry laugh filled with bitterness and something more… a type of agony. “Can you fuckin’ blame her? Guy was a piece of shit. Never did a good thing in his life. I’m surprised this many people showed up, including you.” It was a genuine thought, he couldn’t understand what would make Ian want to witness the last lingering moments of Terry Milkovich, a man that he thought Ian hated more than he did.

A beat passed and Ian looked resolutely at Mickey who had again averted his eyes to the ground. He finished the cigarette and stubbed it out in the snow, letting the hiss of fire meeting ice fill their ears. “Wanted to make sure you were okay.” It wasn’t a question, but that’s how Mickey took it. A loaded question that Mickey needed to avoid. He wasn’t okay. Hadn’t been okay since before he got locked up, but was trying to learn to live with that knowledge. The knowledge that he would probably never be okay again.

Mickey could feel Ian’s gaze melting him. That familiar heat making it’s way inside him and he started to miss the numbness. Needed to take control, so he shifted the conversation to something more neutral. “You look good.” he stated as he drew his gaze up to meet Ian’s. Ian locked eyes with him as a feeling of familiarity and warmth washed over him. He saw the way Mickey’s eyes were glassy with a hint of redness. He knew he hadn’t let any tears slip, that he was pushing it all inside. “Are you?” Mickey questioned. Ian understood the question as a way of averting the focus to something else and not on the way Mickey so clearly saw how Ian could see the pain in his eyes. There was a genuine concern on Mickey’s part for wanting to make sure Ian was good. That he was healthy, happy, taking his meds. Ian gave in to the aversion and replied “Yeah. Had a rough patch during the summer where I kinda spiraled. Was taking my meds so didn’t think anything of it. Turns out meds can be a fickle bitch and dosages have to be constantly tweaked. Got that taken care of and I’m doin’ better now.” Mickey’s gaze was still on Ian as he listened to his reply. Ian saw his eyes become distant and hollow and he felt the internal struggle that was causing it, felt it pulling at his own heart.

With their eyes still connected Ian gently placed his hand on Mickey’s left leg that was still laying flat on the ground between them and softly said “Hey- “. The contact shook Mickey out of his thoughts, he flinched slightly and averted his eyes to the ground once again. He felt the warmth from Ian’s hand start to drown out the numbness. Ian gently squeezed Mickey’s thigh and continued, “He was a worthless man and he’s gone now. All the shit he did to you, Mandy… _us_ , it’s in the past now.” Mickey let out a small breath he hadn’t realized he’d been keeping in. The corner of his mouth curved up into a dry and discouraging smile. Not warm and welcoming but cold and knowing, like what Ian had just said held no value. “Doesn’t fuckin’ matter if he’s gone, man. Blood is blood.” Mickey paused and let the weight of his words sink in. Terry’s blood was coursing through his veins. It would always be there, regenerating and cursing him with no hope of escape. Just another one of those things he would have to learn to live with.

Mickey continued, “‘S like one of those fuckin’ games on the playground in elementary school. The pole thing with the fuckin’ ball attached by a rope.” Ian furrowed his brow in confusion. “What? A… a tetherball?” “Yeah, a fuckin’ tetherball. It’s like no matter how hard you try to get away, escape him and what he’s done, it’s always gonna be there. Always gonna get wrapped tightly around his shit. His blood is my blood.” Ian felt his heart sink at the truth to that statement. He’d been blessed with bad genes from Monica, the only lasting thing she gave him that has dominantly defined his life for the last couple of years. Mickey began to nervously chew on his bottom lip, gauging whether he should continue. He was being pulled in different directions. Ian’s hand felt comforting on his thigh but he was trying to keep guarded, knowing how all of this would end. Relentlessly he added, “And fuckin’ Yevgeny… kid was fucked from day one and he doesn’t even know it.” Aside from the manner in which Yev was conceived, knowing he had Mickey’s blood, _Terry’s_ blood, made it impossible for Mickey to fully love the child. “Just because we share their blood and genes doesn’t mean we have to end up like them. Ya know, we are the ‘masters of our fate, captains of our soul’ or whatever. Free will, right?” Ian desperately wanted Mickey to believe this, more than he wanted to believe it himself. Mickey scoffed, “Yeah, and we just do shitty things to fuck up our lives ourself.”

Ian could feel Mickey slip further into the darkness settling in his chest. He wanted so badly to be able to pull him out of it and make him believe he was going to be okay. Without thought he moved his hand up and cupped Mickey’s face, fingers caressing his neck and his thumb dancing lightly over his cheek, begging for Mickey to look at him. The touch sent a shiver down Mickey’s spine, the warmth starting to overtake his whole body. His eyes closed lightly at the feeling as he leaned into the touch. After a brief moment he opened them and brought his gaze up to Ian’s. Ian stated firmly, looking deep into Mickey’s blue eyes, “You’re nothing like him." His voice was stern and the words mimicked a confidence that he new Ian believed to be true. "Not anymore than I have to be like Monica.” Mickey felt the words penetrate his heart, his throat becoming suddenly dry. The warmth was becoming overwhelming, he knew he needed to break away and reinforce the walls that were starting to crumble around him. 

He let out a slight smile, breaking his gaze from Ian’s, as he brought his hands down to the frozen ground and pushed himself up, letting Ian’s hand slip from his cheek. He felt the warmth start to fade as the cold settled in once again. He cleared his throat so as to not let his voice falter, “Yeah, right.” The words were unconvincing. “Looks like they’re about finished,” he said as he nodded over to the group of people saying their last goodbyes and collecting their things. “I should probably get going before someone notices me. But, uh, thanks for, ya know, coming and whatever.” Before he could walk away Ian sprang to his feet and asked, “Where are you going? Do you have somewhere to stay?” Mickey debated on whether it was wise to tell the truth. “House is getting foreclosed on, probably a shithole by now. Gotta see what’s worth salvaging. Doubt the heat’s on, so Imma crash at Mandy’s”. It was true, the house was getting foreclosed on since his brother’s hadn’t kept up with the payments after Mandy left and got an apartment several blocks down. It was a lie that he was staying at Mandy’s, he hadn’t even let her know he was coming back. Mickey turned his back and started to walk away. Ian called out “Mind if I stop by in a bit? My shift’s almost over.” Mickey turned around but continued to walk backwards and replied, “The fuck do I care? We ain’t tethered together, man.” Ian let out a soft laugh at how untrue that was.

**Author's Note:**

> Title of the work and chapter titles are taken/adapted from the song "Michigan" by Milk Carton Kids - https://youtu.be/WEDnGAvjQXw


End file.
